Wunderland(5)

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Later they lay sprawled on the worn carpet in Renate’s room, their bodies at loosely intersecting angles, socked feet tapping in time to Ethel Waters, bewailing her loss of diamonds and dough.

“Can you keep a secret?” Renate stage-whispered.

“Can you really be asking that?” countered Ilse. In the three years of their friendship they’d shared hundreds of secrets. Secrets about boys and girls, parents and teachers. Secrets about school struggles and bodily secretions; about budding breasts and bad grades, and how to hide one or both from one’s parents in order to escape commentary on them. Secrets about what, exactly, comprises that time of the month, and when that time comes or does not come. And secrets about other secrets they’ve overheard from the grown-ups, who always seem to assume that they’re not listening.

“I found something,” Renate murmured. “Underneath Franz’s bed.”

Ilse looked up, immediately interested. “A love letter? His diary?”

“Worse. Postcards.”

Ilse snorted. “How’s that worse?”

Renate took a deep breath. “Not the usual postcards. Think. Remember the dirty ones we saw in Nolli?”

“Oooooh!” Ilse’s pale blue-gray eyes widened. “He bought those things? When? How?”

Renate shrugged: “No idea. But he’s got them. A full dozen. In a cigar box.”

Ilse giggled, a little shrilly. From the Victrola came the sound of clippity-clop-clippity-clop, which they’d both initially thought was the sound of trotting horses until Franz explained tap dancing to them. “That’s probably what he and his group do during their secret meetings,” she said. “Ogle nude ladies. They only call it a ‘Socialist discussion group’ for cover.”

“They actually call it a ‘Schiller discussion group’ now. So as not to attract attention.” In fact, given recent laws about leftist parties and rumors of midnight Sicherheitsdienst visits, Renate isn’t supposed to discuss her brother’s politics, or any politics, really, with anyone outside the family. But of course, she considers Ilse family. “But this card…this woman, Ilsi,” she said, shaking her head.

“What about her? What’s she doing?”

“She’s…reading.”

“Reading?” Ilse looked nonplussed. “Reading what? Chatterley? De Sade?”

“It’s not what she’s reading.” Renate tucked a dark curl behind her ear. “It’s what’s happening while she’s doing it.”

“And that is…”

Renate opened her mouth, then snapped it shut and covered it with both hands. “I can’t.”

“Reni!” Pushing herself up to hands and knees, Ilse crawled toward her and peeled her friend’s hands from her face. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Renate shook her head, pulling back, laughing breathlessly. Finally blurting: “There’s a man.” Eyes sparkling, she pointed toward her navel.

“A man at her belly?”

Another head shake. “Further down.”

“Is he reading too?”

“No. He’s…he’s…you know.” Renate hugged her thin calves, buried her face in her knees. “E’s fiffingfer.”

“What?” Ilse pried her friend’s knobby knees apart and leaned between them, her pale face just inches from her best friend’s flushed one.

“He’s kissing her,” Renate said breathlessly. “Down there.”

“In her…in her Scheide?” Ilse’s milk-pale face turned faintly pink. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I swear. I swear on my dead Gro?vater’s grave.” Renate had actually never seen her dead grandfather’s grave, and in fact never met the man herself, both of her father’s parents having died before her birth. But it was the only oath that came to mind at the moment. And apparently it was enough: in a heartbeat the blond girl was on her feet, sprinting toward the door.

“Wait,” said Renate, leaping to her own feet as Ilse’s hand hit the doorknob. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think, bist du bekloppt? To his room!”

“But he’s studying!”

“We’ll distract him.”

“But I’m not supposed to even knock on exam nights!”

“You’re not,” said Ilse. “He never said anything about me, though, did he?” Without waiting for an answer she yanked open the door, nearly tripping over the wiry-haired Schnauzer who had been lying in wait just outside. Ecstatic at his sudden access (Ilse is his favorite non-Bauer), he hurled himself against her shins, whining his adoration.

“Not now, Sigmund,” Ilse said, pushing past to resume her short march down the hallway. “Well, did he?” she demanded, over her shoulder.

“No,” admitted Renate, hurrying breathlessly after her friend. “Still, you can’t just walk in there. You must at least have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Ilse snapped back. “You’ll see.”

Reaching Franz’s room, she rapped three times sharply, just above the scrawled Nicht st?ren sign (helpfully embellished with a scrawled skull and crossbones) tacked to the door. When there was no audible response she knocked a second time, louder. She was about to commence a third time when the door swung abruptly open.